"It was only then you realized how ordinary the barely possible had been made to appear — and it is the crash rather than the perfect somersaults that express the truth, the essence of the activity."
(from But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer)
I can’t stand to be with anyone and I don’t want to be alone.
Give a man a poem, and he will starve for a day—but teach a man to be a poet, and he will starve for a lifetimeChristian Bok
Roberto Bolaño (via)
William Burroughs reads Naked Lunch
Writing and rewriting. Does it matter if it is the same thing, every day? Every time? What does it mean that I want to write the same story, the same anecdote over and over and over again, that it wasn’t gone the first time, that I have tried to capture the story of Y so many times, with so many variations, that the variations are now more real than my memories? What does it mean about the real people that I am writing about? Is it still real people that I am writing about? I am still using memories to write about them. If it isn’t about them, who am I writing about?
Hieronymus Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights (details), c. 1490-1510, oil on panel. Museo del Prado, Madrid
In case you haven’t heard, a college student transcribed and recorded a musical score written across the bum of an individual in Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.